


fake is the new real

by shineyma



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/M, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-11
Updated: 2016-01-11
Packaged: 2018-05-13 02:50:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5691814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shineyma/pseuds/shineyma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Crying is not an option--which is unfortunate, because Jemma is <em>excellent</em> at faking tears.</p>
            </blockquote>





	fake is the new real

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even know, you guys. This is just...very random. But hopefully enjoyable?
> 
> ilosttrackofthings said: "“Don’t cry.” + biospec <3"

“No, no, no. Don’t cry.”

“What do you mean, _don’t cry_?” Jemma demands, a touch offended. “I may not be a very accomplished liar, but I’ll have you know I am _excellent_ at feigning tears. It’s the perfect way to garner sympathy!”

“Exactly.” Ward reaches out and catches her wrist, interrupting her pacing to pull her back down onto the bed. “You start crying, they’ll wanna comfort you. It’ll draw the conversation out, invite questions about how you’re feeling…in the end, it just means more _actual_ lies you’ll have to tell. Better to stick with stoic, like you’re trying to power through it.”

“Oh,” she frowns. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

“And that’s why deception’s my job and not yours,” he says, with a little smile. Then he pauses, smile fading into a considering stare. “…But, just out of curiosity, how—and why—are you so good at fake crying?”

Drat.

Well aware, thanks to the heat in her face, that she’s blushing horribly, she busies herself straightening the rather complicated skirt she’s wearing. Some of the dangling lacy jeweled bits have become tangled after all of her pacing.

“Simmons?” Ward prompts.

“It’s a long story,” she says. “Very boring. Wouldn’t interest you at all, I’m sure.”

At that, he actually laughs. “Okay, I’ve _definitely_ gotta hear this. Come on.”

“No, I don’t think—”

“Please?” he presses, with a coaxing smile, and she folds like the mortifyingly infatuated woman she is.

“Oh, all right,” she sighs, and leaves off fidgeting with her skirt. It’s a hopeless mess, anyway. “When I was at the Academy, I got my first proper boyfriend. Scientifically speaking, he was a genius—some of his ideas were downright groundbreaking, and I was very excited to share lab space with him. However, as a person he was rather…dull.”

Her eyes drift to Ward, who’s listening intently. In direct contrast to her elaborate costume, he’s wearing very little; only her slight immunity to his shirtless torso—built up over the months he’s spent exercising twice-daily in front of the Bus’ lab’s windows—has allowed her to maintain her concentration. Even then, it’s been a close thing.

This entire situation is terribly, terribly unfair. If they make it out alive, she fully intends to register a complaint. With whom, she’s not quite certain, but surely there’s _someone_ she can blame for this.

“Actually,” she says, reining her wandering thoughts back in, “to be more precise, he was an insufferable bore. I regretted our relationship by the end of our second date.” She grimaces, annoyed even now by the entire farce. “Unfortunately, as it was my first real relationship, I wasn’t entirely sure how to go about ending it. As such, I was very relieved when he did it for me—and I made the mistake of showing it.”

“Uh oh,” says Ward, who presumably is well-acquainted with the fragility of the male ego. _He’s_ always struck her as being above that sort of petty egoism, but she knows part of his job as a specialist involves using people’s flaws of personality against them.

She’s sure it’s been a useful tool.

“Quite,” she says. “To make a long story short, he became very tiresome after that—he intended, I believe, to win me back and win me over, that he might properly break my heart upon ending our relationship again—and in the interests of avoiding the problem in the future, I sought assistance. One of my friends taught me to feign tears very convincingly, and so I trot them out whenever a relationship ends, the better to avoid any unnecessary unpleasantness.”

…Now that she thinks on it, it’s a bit troubling how often she ends up dating men who need to be appeased by her tears. As a teenager, she dismissed it as part and parcel of romantic relationships, but really, that’s absurd. She knows several men who would all be very distressed should she begin crying in front of them, and they can’t be the _only_ ones in the world with a shred of human decency.

Perhaps she should reconsider her dating habits.

Well, that’s for later. At the moment, Ward’s lips are pressed into a very thin line—he’s wearing the expression that she, Fitz, and Skye used to consider evidence of his stoic and (to use Skye’s word) uptight nature.

They’ve since learnt it actually means something quite different.

“Go ahead,” she invites, resigned, and he laughs.

A lot.

(Sometimes she regrets gaining the knowledge that Ward’s _unamused_ face is actually his _trying desperately not to laugh_ face.)

“That,” he says, eventually (and breathlessly), “is the most adorably manipulative thing I’ve ever heard.”

Trying not to blush—he called her adorable! Indirectly, but still!—she falls back to lie flat on the bed, covering her face with both hands.

“I was young,” she offers in muffled defense. “And he was just so much _trouble_ —”

“Hey,” Ward says, “don’t get me wrong.” He pats her stomach gently, sending a flash of heat through her as his palm brushes over the bare skin where her top fails to meet her skirt. “It was smart—a clever use of the resources you had available at the time. But I hope you know that kind of thing isn’t necessary anymore.”

“Why?” She lets her hands fall away from her face in favor of propping herself up on her elbows, the better to meet his eyes. “Because we’re _married_?”

He pauses. “Actually, I was gonna say because May and I would be happy to cross off anyone who harasses you, but…yeah. That too.”

Jemma smiles, a bit, because she absolutely believes that he and May (and likely even Skye) would do such a thing, but her own—rather petulant—reference to their present circumstances has soured her mood.

“Which brings us back to the issue at hand,” she says. “Are you _certain_ this plan is the one you want to go with?”

“You won’t be in any danger at all,” he starts, and she sits up to thump him in the arm.

“But _you_ will! These people literally worship me, for whatever reason, and if they believe that you’ve hurt me—”

“Don’t worry,” Ward soothes, resting a reassuring hand on her knee. “I kept an eye out during the ceremony; none of these people have any training to speak of. As soon as you’re out of the crossfire, I’ll be able to take them out, no problem.”

There are actually _several_ problems, not least of which is that for all he’s a risk assessment specialist, Ward tends to leave a rather wide margin for error regarding risk to himself. There’s a significant chance he’s understating the peril he’s about to throw himself into.

And for another thing, for all that they’ve abducted her, forced her to marry Ward (or, rather, offered him up as a sacrifice to “slake her dark lusts”—such an odd bunch of people these are), and effectively imprisoned her…she has, entirely against her will, started to become a bit fond of her ‘worshippers’.

“…Do you _have_ to take them out?” she asks reluctantly, and Ward’s eyebrows rise in incredulity.

“I mean, unless you _want_ me to accept the role of your consort-slash-enforcer so you can ‘ascend to your true potential’, whatever that means…”

“No,” she sighs, “I suppose not.”

“No,” he agrees. “So, my plan?”

_His_ plan is for her to go out into the heavily guarded corridor and demand he be taken away for harming her. Then, once he’s dragged out in chains—assuming their captors/worshippers don’t simply execute him on the spot—he’ll fight his way out of the compound and back to the team, who will then be able to mount a rescue for her.

Neither one of them really _likes_ the plan—Ward because it involves leaving her behind and Jemma because there are _so many ways_ he could die in carrying it out, not to mention the fact that it relies on her lacking skill in deception—but it’s really the best they’ve got.

(Well, actually, part of her is very, very tempted to simply go along with the apparently traditional—and that does make her wonder just how many so-called goddesses her worshippers/captors have previously kidnapped—month-long marriage consummation ceremony, which mostly consists of Jemma and Ward remaining locked in this room and having as much sex as possible, but…

…What was her reason for discarding that option again? Ah, yes. Professionalism. Curse her dedication to protocol.)

“Your plan,” she allows resignedly. “But please, _please_ be careful. I’m too young to be a widow.”

As a joke, it’s half-hearted at best, but at least it’s something.

“I will,” he promises, and stands, pulling her up with him to tug her into a hug. She buries her resulting blush—he’s very nearly nude and so, _so_ perfectly formed; the consummation plan is more tempting by the minute—in his shoulder. “But just so you know, if I _do_ die? I expect _real_ tears at my funeral.”

“Absolutely not,” she says, swallowing past the lump the idea of his funeral puts in her throat. “If you’re foolish enough to get yourself killed, I’m recruiting Skye to tell all sorts of horrible lies about you. You’ll be so embarrassed that your corpse will blush, despite the lack of blood flow.”

Ward chuckles—something Jemma, pressed up against him, more feels than hears. It rumbles pleasantly through her, and combined with the warmth of his hands on her back—this is such a flimsy top, the slightest pressure could rip it right in two, and then—

“Right,” she says, hurriedly, and pushes away from him. “The plan. No time like the present, yes?”

“Yeah,” he says with a solemn nod. “And really, Jemma. Don’t worry. I’ve got this.”

She hopes so. She really, really hopes so.

(Nearly as much as she hopes that her captors/worshippers mistake her blush for a flush of anger, because it’s clearly not going away anytime soon.)


End file.
